


In Which One (1) Eridan Ampora Falls In Love With a Dining Table

by Airams



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Literally a dining table, Other, Soulmatestuck, a fucking dining table, dining tables, dont ask me where this came from, literally wood, not the dick kind of wood just wood, ok maybe not a dining table at first but, soulmate, wood, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 21:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7122466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airams/pseuds/Airams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the thought that souls don't always have to be put into a human catalyst, and that love comes in many forms. Such as dining tables.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which One (1) Eridan Ampora Falls In Love With a Dining Table

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I have literally no excuse I just got bored please forgive me.

Eridan had always been able to see exactly what he could make a piece of wood into: what it was destined to be. Somehow, when he had gotten his hands on those pieces of unrefined wood, he knew that they were special. As chipped and ugly as they were initially, Eridan knew he could make something beautiful with them. It wasn’t anything special at first, really. Just bits of wood. Nothing more, nothing less. There was just something that was so damn unique about it. Perhaps it was the fetching way that it caught the light filtering in through the window of his workshop- the dust dancing in the dim, insubstantial rays. It always seemed to exude some sort of glow, almost as if begging for him to run his calloused hand down its jagged surface, make it into something beautiful and new. For a good long while, Eridan didn't. He took care of the planks of wood, taking the time to inspect each crevice to make sure that there was no growth on it. For a good long while, Eridan had no idea what to do with it. His fingers would dance across the surface, memorizing the sharp, inconsistent valleys and ravines, and he would sigh wistfully each time he parted with it. 

His friends and family started to call him crazy. 

He ignored them.

After a while, the magic wore off of the wood. He was attracted to it like a moth to flame, it was special, but he grew to resent it. Why couldn’t he just make something out of it and get it over with? Each time he drew near with his tools, readying himself to smooth away those rough edges, he felt hesitation hit him like a sack of bricks. He could never bring himself to do anything with it, and that just made him so _ridiculously_ furious. At times, he would curse: seething mad, spitting with anger, probing, questioning, _demanding_. The wood never answered him. He could never see it, he could never see the image of what it could be made into. He could never feel the handle of a chair, he could never feel the smooth top of a cabinet. He only ever saw little smiles, felt soft hands, the _maddening_ sensation of lips brushing against his- 

...

It drove him insane. The already sordid workshop turned squalid as his resentment festered. Why? Why couldn’t he simply make something out of this hunk of wood to get it over with? It would be so easy to convert it into something simple-- a stool, a rocking chair, a _broom handle_ \-- at this point, anything would suffice so long as it got this infuriating feeling away from him. A snarl tore from his throat, and he felt the frustration in him mounting. He wanted to kill this thing for making him feel this way. It just so unfortunately happened that it was already dead. He swore at it, he cursed it, he damned that comminated thing to hell. After a while, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t stand being in the same room as his failure. After a while, Eridan left. He needed some time away. He had grown too close to the accursed thing, and he began to think that what his family said was right. Maybe (just maybe) he _was_ crazy. Regular people didn’t fall in love with wood. He came back after a while, though. He always did. Somehow, in some twisted trick of fate, Eridan could never separate himself from that thing. He could never temerate the bond that he had forged between himself and that piece of wood. (Or, at least, the bond that he had made inside his head.) He could never bring himself to harm it, he could never bring himself to change it. All he could do was be consumed by his own rage and fury, his love and his care. He could only ever yell in anger and frustration, he could only ever brush his hands down the rough edges of the wood, whispering in an almost hollow tone, “I’m sorry..."

He would sometimes look over to the plank, as if it could provide him with the answers that he sought for. It never did. Everybody knew that wood couldn’t talk back. He was foolish to ever think otherwise. 

In all his years of woodworking, he’d never heard a piece of god damned wood speak to him. Why would this one be any different? (He _wanted_ it to be different, though. He wanted it to speak to him, to tell him why he had become so befuddled by it that he couldn’t even think of anything else.) He hated this, he hated it and he hated himself. He especially hated the way that he kept coming back, heedless of what his loved ones were telling him. 

This was hurting him. He should’ve simply stopped when he had the chance to, but he didn’t. He was addicted to the sense of comfort, the lulling sense of false security that it gave him. He was addicted to a god damned piece of wood that didn’t love him back, that _couldn’t_ love him back because it was _fucking dead_. He had to convince himself that it was hopeless, somehow. He had to. He had to wean himself from the drug-like effects of being in close proximity with it, the one sided conversations, the little bits and flares of anger when it didn’t reply (didn’t do _anything_ ), and the secrets that he shared with something that he knew wouldn’t (couldn’t) tell anyone. Wood would never betray him. He had worked with it all his life, it had become somewhat of an extension of him at this point. 

He could make it into whatever he wanted, and wood would always listen to him. It wasn’t as malleable as some other things in nature, and it would sometimes break, but he never minded. It was all fine to him, it didn’t matter if it _broke_ or not. Everything broke eventually. Nothing was impervious to the tug of time- nothing could withstand nor transcend time. Everything broke. Everything. There was no exception. It just so happened that wood didn’t break apart cleanly. Wood struggled valiantly as you bent it, wood groaned in pain and resisted whatever force was put upon it until it could not take it anymore. It left splinters of itself as it snapped in many, many pieces...

When Eridan’s patience snapped, just like the wood that he so treasured, it left splinters in things nearby, and it left jagged edges that could not be salvaged. He took his tools to the wood, ignoring the stinging intuition in the back of his mind that this was _wrong_ , that this was not how things were supposed to go. He was infuriated, and it was not as if something as _petty_ as his own thoughts could stop him. His thoughts were what had kept him so close to this parasitic thing in the first place. He should’ve known better than to let him get so fucking attached to this thing, he _should’ve known better_...

Somehow, he could hear the wood screaming, begging him to stop. Somehow, as he cut into the planks that he had kept safe for so long, he could almost hear it crying in pain, telling him the same thing that his mind did. _“This wasn’t how it was supposed to go…”_ He didn’t care. It was this fucking piece of wood that had caused him so much pain, this fucking piece of wood that had made him lose so many precious things. Was it worth it? Were these planks of wood worth it? Most certainly not, he thought to himself. There was no possible way that planks of god damned wood could be worth sacrificing so much for. A nagging feeling in the back of his mind protested, it raised its voice once more in the most earnest outcry, demanding that he stop harming it right that instant. Being the type of man that he was, Eridan did not listen. Why should he? He could not come up with a good enough answer to combat the thought, and therefore neglected it completely. He did not care anymore- he just wanted those _infernal_ feelings to be gone. This was just wood, right? There was no harm in making it into something, right? It was his job to, after all.

As soon as he was done polishing off the wood, smoothing out all the uneven edges (the same edges that he had run his hands over countless times, the same ones that he had combed for signs of disease and hurt, the same ones, the _same ones…!_ ), he was at a loss for what to do. What was he supposed to make it into? He hadn’t thought this far, he didn’t know that he could’ve been brave enough to go through with this. It shocked him a little, but the more logical side of his mind kicked in. Why wouldn’t he have done this? It would’ve been more surprising if he didn’t. If he didn’t make this into something after such a long time of owning it, he would’ve been crazy for sure. If there was one thing Eridan Ampora was not, it was crazy. He was _not_ crazy. That mere thought was just preposterous. Eridan found himself making an odd sound, his eyes dewy as moisture clung to his bottom lashes. He tilted his head back, raising a hand to push the sweat slicked strands of hair out of his face, and laughed heartily. 

_A table. He would make a table._

And so he worked, hammers and nails nearby, a saw behind him and gloves on his hands. Goggles protected his face, and those same goggles shielded his eyes from what horrors he may have subjected himself to otherwise. Throughout the tedious process of constructing a dining table, the bitter, persisting pain continued to eat away at him. Why was he doing this? Why couldn’t he just let the wood stay as it was? It wasn’t doing anything, right? It had only been a fabrication that caused him so much pain. Eridan, in a dazed stupor, ran his bare hand down the side of the now smooth surface. Instead of wood, he felt skin. Instead of something smooth and pristine, he felt broken bones and tears. Instead of seeing beautiful mahogany, he saw a tearstained face (equally as beautiful, if not more so). Instead of hearing the sound of his fingers sliding down, he heard muffled sobs, muffled little sounds that all came together to form three, heart shattering words. _”I trusted you…”_

As if burned, Eridan recoiled. He blinked quickly. His face drained of color, and he quickly pulled his gloves back on. His goggles followed suit, and they shielded his eyes once more. As if he had put on a blindfold, the image quickly went away. Tentatively, he reached out, probing the wood once more. Solid. Gaining a bit more confidence, he knocked on the beginning of what was to be the tabletop. Solid. Had it been his imagination? Eridan swallowed thickly, setting about his work once more. He didn’t want to think about it if it wasn’t necessary. He steeled himself, and set about his work once more (albeit somewhat reluctantly). He didn’t need to think about these things. All he had to do was make this table. It was that simple, but it didn’t seem that way. Throughout the process, there was a ghosting feeling of hands on his shoulders, a warm breath on his neck, a voice in his ear. He didn’t like it. It distracted him too much, and he wanted to get this arduous process over with as soon as possible, even if it meant lying to himself to make it flow smoothly. Making a table wasn’t even that difficult. He didn’t get why he was having so much trouble with this one. Perhaps it was because he had gotten far too attached to it? That could’ve been true. He had been spending an absurd amount of time with the damned thing, after all. What had he been thinking, anyways. Eridan saw his vision swim, and he felt the flush creeping up on his ears and neck. Did he have a fever? It would explain why he was acting so strangely as of late. The attraction to those inanimate objects could’ve been due to the fever as well, right?

Once he managed to convince himself that there was nothing amiss, the work went by quicker, and he was finished with the table in no time. He never managed to shake off the notion that something was wrong, though. He couldn’t. Maybe what he did really _was_ wrong? Eridan shook his head at that thought. Now that was just ridiculous. There was no way that using a piece of wood could be wrong, right? That’s what it had been bought for. As he placed the finishing touches on the table, Eridan couldn’t help but wonder. He reached out a hand, his fingers gliding across the top of the table. It was smooth. A bit disconcerted, he pulled off his gloves, placing his entire hand onto the polished wood. It was warm, and it had texture that did not belong in wood. The friction formed from moving his hand over it brought back a few memories that he thought would’ve been better off forgotten. Eridan shuddered violently, fighting back the urge to recoil from shock and fear. He had to know. He simply had to. If there was anything that Eridan was not, it was a coward. He wasn’t going to run away from a table, let alone one that he built. Fueled by his burning sense of curiosity, he took off his goggles shakily.

Eridan had always been able to see exactly what he could make a piece of wood into: what it was destined to be. Somehow, he couldn’t see a table in it anymore. 

_He saw a person._


End file.
